


Meandering

by sospes



Series: The Path Not Taken [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Drinking, Eskel Is Done With Their Shit, Lambert Has A Filthy Mouth, M/M, Missing Scene, Sexual Content, Witcher Brothers Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:20:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24221215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sospes/pseuds/sospes
Summary: Geralt and Lambert get drunk and talk about Jaskier. It all just sort of escalates from there.[Missing scene from Chapter 5 ofThe Path Not Taken.]
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert
Series: The Path Not Taken [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1719325
Comments: 97
Kudos: 1609





	Meandering

**Author's Note:**

> So, I only just finished _[Long and Winding](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23858956)_ yesterday and I thought, hey, I'll take a little break from this series, recharge a bit. Except I've had the idea for this missing scene since I finished _[The Path Not Taken](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23647384)_ \- so guess what I spent my afternoon writing?! 
> 
> This is 100% self-indulgent sort-of-porn except no one actually has any sex. It's set the evening after Geralt and Jaskier's kiss in the stables, and it is completely pointless but I had a lovely time writing it!
> 
> Also there are 29 instances of the word 'fuck' in this fic, which means there is more than one 'fuck' per 100 words. I don't know whether to be proud of this or not...

“You know,” Lambert says, taking the demijohn of vodka out of Geralt’s hand and pouring himself an excessively large measure, “if you’re going to stick your tongue down the bard’s throat in the stables, you might want to be a _bit_ more subtle about it.” 

Geralt shoots him a sharp look, which he imagines is probably somewhat hindered by the fact that the alcohol has made his vision a little… unfocused. “Fuck off, Lambert,” he adds for good measure. 

Lambert seems undeterred. He plumps himself down next to Geralt, drinks half of the vodka he pours in one, then tops himself up before handing the demijohn back. “I get that you can’t do much about getting your smell all over him,” he allows. “But at least straighten out his hair before you let him go wandering around the keep, yeah?” 

“ _Lambert._ ” 

Lambert, again, ignores him. Geralt is abruptly very glad that there’s no one else in the small hall, everyone either gone to bed or, in Jaskier’s case, gone to spend a little while after dinner out on the eastern wall. Eskel’s gone with him, and Geralt pushes down the curl of bitterness that that still engenders in his gut. “It’s just friendly advice, Geralt,” Lambert says, interrupting his thoughts, waving his vodka like it’s a blunt training sword. “Don’t leave your bard looking like you’ve just fucked him up against a wall, okay? It’s gonna give people the wrong impression.” He pokes his fingertip into Geralt’s shoulder, chuckles loudly, and takes a long sip of his vodka. 

Somewhat belatedly, Geralt realises that Lambert might be a little drunk, too. He ponders this for a moment through the alcohol haze in his head, then shrugs, and pours himself some more vodka. 

“You haven’t, have you?” Lambert asks, frowning. 

“Haven’t what?” Geralt asks, sipping the vodka, feeling its burn in the back of his throat and the heat of the fire against his legs. He planned to spend the evening in the small hall by himself, drinking himself into a slow, gentle kind of drunkenness, staring into the fire and dozing into that half-meditative state between wakefulness and sleep that accompanies heavy drinking. 

Lambert, however, seems to have other ideas. “Fucked him,” he says bluntly, tossing back another mouthful. “Jaskier.” 

Geralt glares at him. “Lambert.” 

“So that’s a no, then?” 

Geralt growls a little, but his heart isn’t in it. “Do you want me to break your fucking nose again?” 

Lambert dismisses him with a shrug. “Pretty sure you’ve drunk enough that I could stop you,” he says, which Geralt takes as a challenge. He puts his cup down on the floor and promptly tackles Lambert to the rug in front of the fire, grabbing him into a headlock which, to Geralt’s supreme annoyance, Lambert manages to wiggle out of with relative ease. Lambert snaps out a laugh, then grabs Geralt by the knees, tugs his legs out from under him and pins him to the rug, sitting astride his waist and leaning pretty much all of his weight on his chest – then snorts. “Had your bard like this, you know,” he says, lips curled in a wicked smirk. “Laid out underneath me, naked and panting and _begging me_ to fuck him.” 

Geralt gets a knee up and drives it into Lambert’s balls, then laughs as Lambert groans, goes momentarily cross-eyed, and rolls off him. “Pity that’ll be the last time you get to see him like that,” Geralt says, clambers back into the bench next to the fire, and retrieves his drink. 

“You’re a dick,” Lambert wheezes, still clutching his crotch. 

“You started it,” Geralt points out, then grabs Lambert’s discarded vodka glass and hands it back to him. 

Still lying on the floor, Lambert toasts him and drinks. “He’s completely fucking besotted with you, Geralt,” he says after a moment. “Tried to turn me _down_ because of you.” 

Geralt stills, just for a moment. “You forced him?” 

Lambert kicks him, expression twisted in a glare. “Fuck off did I force him,” he snaps. “Gods, Geralt, who do you fucking think I am?” 

“You just said he tried to turn you down,” Geralt points out, and drinks again. This conversation is going places that he didn’t think it was going to go, and he’s pretty sure he’s going to need to be drunker to cope with it. He snags the demijohn, tops himself up – then, after a moment, leans forward and tops Lambert up, too. It’s as good an apology as any, he figures. 

“Yeah, because he didn’t want to lead me on,” Lambert snorts. “Said it wasn’t _fair on me_ , which is a joke and a half.” He drinks. “Too fucking in love with you to get down and dirty with a fine specimen like me, it’s a fucking travesty.” 

“Sounds like he’s just got good taste.” 

“Fuck off,” Lambert says conversationally. “And anyway, he changed his mind, didn’t he?”

Geralt remembers Lambert’s scent on Jaskier’s clothes, on his skin, on his hair, remembers the madness of grief and loss that surged through him like a flood. It’s just a memory, now, just a regret. It’s done. 

Lambert doesn’t seem to notice Geralt’s moment of melancholy. Then again, he’s currently sprawled out on his back across the bearskin rug that’s been in front of the small hall’s fire longer than Geralt can remember, so he’s probably not at his observational best. “I,” Lambert says, full of the confidence of the marvellously drunk, “am going to give you some advice.” 

“Not sure I want advice from you,” Geralt says. 

“You’re gonna get it anyway,” Lambert answers. “When you fuck him, Geralt—”

“ _Lambert._ ” 

“When you fuck him,” Lambert says again, unperturbed, “don’t be afraid to be rough with him.” 

“Shut the fuck up, Lambert,” Geralt says, but there isn’t as much heat in it as there probably should be.

“I mean, he’s human,” Lambert just keeps going, mainly staring at the ceiling and spilling vodka on himself. “So don’t, you know, break him. But he’s no wilting maiden, that’s for sure. _Gods_ , I shoved his head into the mattress and held him there while I fucked him – and the _sounds_ that came out of his fucking mouth. Moaned like the most expensive whore you’ve ever had.” 

Geralt should probably just get up and go, leave Lambert to his spilled vodka and his filthy mouth. He’s finding, though, that for some inexplicable reason he doesn’t want to. 

“I guess the sounds he makes shouldn’t be that surprising,” Lambert muses, licking vodka off his thumb. “He’s a bard, they’re all fucking noisy bastards. But I swear, it’s like they trained him at that fancy academy of his to make noises that’ll go straight to your cock.” He shakes his head, looks up at Geralt. “You’re a lucky man, Geralt,” he says, then pauses for a second and snorts. “Or at least I guess you will be, when he lets you take him to bed.” 

Geralt lets himself think about it for a moment – Jaskier, flushed and naked, lips spit-slick, blue eyes dark with lust, with need. Something twists, low in his stomach. 

“He likes it when you talk, too,” Lambert says, continuing his monologue. “I was a bit surprised by that, to be honest, figured that he’d be more for talk _ing_ than being talked _at_. But, _fuck_ , a few words at the right time and he was like a randy dog, fucking _panting_. Got three fingers in his tight little arse and told him I was going to fuck him until he saw stars, and I swear to all the gods he almost came right there and then. And I wasn’t even touching his cock!” His lips spread, somewhere between a sneer and a leer. “Oh, he’s got a pretty cock, Geralt. A _very_ pretty cock.” 

Geralt’s not entirely sure he can listen to Lambert describing Jaskier’s cock. Not without being significantly drunker than he is, at least. 

He reaches for the vodka again. 

“Tastes good, too,” Lambert adds. “Not just his cock, although, yeah, that’s pretty fucking delightful. His mouth, his skin. His come.” He leers again. “His hole. And, let me tell you, brother, I don’t think he’d ever been exposed to _that_ particular experience before. He lost his _mind_ when I got my tongue in him.” 

Earlier today, Jaskier let out a little breathy moan when Geralt pressed him hard into the wall of the stables, inhaled sharply when Geralt bit down on his lip. Geralt’s inebriated brain is doing all kinds of things with those memories coupled with the filth that’s currently spewing out of Lambert’s mouth. 

Lambert takes a sloppy drink of whatever vodka he hasn’t spilled all over his shirt, and wags his finger at Geralt. “The best noise, though,” he says drunkenly, “was when I hit his prostate. Which isn’t that surprising, you know, it feels fucking _good_ – but I swear he practically fucking _sang_ when I got that with my fingers.” 

Geralt’s fingers twitch around the cup in his hand. 

Laid out on the floor, Lambert laughs – except he’s drunk enough that it sounds more like a snorting kind of snore. “You know I can smell that your dick’s hard, right, Geralt?” 

Geralt downs the rest of his vodka, then eyes the none-too-subtle bulge in the front of Lambert’s trousers. “You can talk.” 

Lambert shrugs, finishes his drink, then lets the cup fall from his hand and closes his eyes. “I’m thinking about the best fuck I’ve had in years,” he says, his words slurring just a little. “What’s your excuse?” 

Geralt licks his lips. They taste like vodka, which is impressive because vodka doesn’t really taste of anything. “I’m thinking about the next fuck I might get.” 

Lambert makes that snore-snort noise again. “Good point,” he says, then shifts a little, getting comfortable on the bearskin rug. He sighs, long and low, then says, quieter, “Take care of him, Geralt, while you still can.” 

Geralt frowns through his own drunken haze. “What does that mean?” he asks. 

But Lambert’s already asleep, mouth open and snoring. 

Geralt stares at him for a moment longer, forehead furrowed. He should probably go back to his room, curl up in his own bed and sleep it off, but his room is a long way away and this bench is… comfy enough. 

Geralt slides further down, stretches out in the warmth of the fire, and passes out. 

“What the fuck are you two doing?” 

Geralt cracks one eye open, then rapidly decides that was a bad idea and closes it again. 

Somewhere near him, he hears a groan that sounds distinctly Lambert-like. “I _was_ sleeping,” Lambert grumbles, his voice wrecked with alcohol, “until you came along and woke me up. Thanks a bunch, Eskel. Now fuck off and let me sleep, okay?” 

Geralt hums his agreement. 

Lambert yelps, surprisingly high-pitched, and then a splash of cold water hits Geralt right in the face. He sits bolt upright, hissing between his teeth, and squints up at Eskel – who has a bucket in his hand and a smirk splitting his lips. “Morning!” Eskel says, bright and sober. “Now, Vesemir’s going to show up in the next ten minutes or so expecting me to have breakfast ready, so either the two of you stay here and get bollocked by our fencing master – _or_ you both get out of here, go take a fucking bath, and try not to throw up too much during training this morning.” 

Lambert mutters something Geralt can’t be bothered to work out and heaves himself to his feet. He lumbers out of the small hall, rubbing at his face, and he only stumbles into the table and one of the doors on his way out. 

Geralt’s mouth tastes distinctly like something died in it.

Eskel studies him, one eyebrow raised. “How much did you two drink?” he asks, then glances down, picks up the demijohn, peers inside. “I guess the answer is ‘all of it’,” Eskel answers his own question. 

Geralt licks his lips. “My head hurts.” 

Eskel snorts. “Unsurprising,” he says. “Get out of here, Geralt. And maybe have a wash before Jaskier sees you? If you’re trying to romance him, it’s probably best if you don’t stink of stale alcohol and sweat.” His nose wrinkles. “Honestly, you smell bad enough that a _human_ could smell it.” 

“Thanks for the tip,” Geralt says. 

Eskel claps him on the shoulder. “Any time.”

Geralt feels about as coordinated as Lambert looked, but he manages to only walk into the table which he figures counts as a win. He concentrates on just breathing through his nose as he makes his way through the corridors, but every footstep is very loud and every movement makes his stomach churn so, if he’s honest, this morning isn’t going very well. At this rate, he’s _definitely_ going to throw up during training this morning. 

“Geralt?” 

Oh, shit. 

Jaskier is standing in front of him, the collar of his fur-lined collar pulled tight around his ears, a quizzical expression on his face. His cheeks are pink from the cold, his eyes blazingly blue in the cold winter sunlight, his lips slightly parted, his hair tugged and dishevelled from the whisper of the wind – and all of a sudden Geralt remembers Lambert, lying sprawled out on the rug in front of the fire, saying _oh, he’s got a pretty cock, Geralt_ with a half-spilled cup of vodka in one hand. 

Geralt’s hungover brain sort of freezes at that point. 

Jaskier frowns, takes a step closer. “Are you okay, Geralt?” he asks softly, his fingers coming to a fluttering rest above Geralt’s heart. “You look a little… peaky.” 

“I’m fine,” Geralt says, and then abruptly remembers Lambert saying _he lost his mind when I got my tongue in him_. His throat goes dry, and he forces out, “Got drunk with Lambert. Hungover.” 

Jaskier laughs. “Been there,” he says, then raises an eyebrow, a nervous note creeping into his voice. “I’m assuming your drunken evening with Lambert didn’t go quite like my drunken evening with Lambert did?” 

“Not exactly,” Geralt rumbles, and thinks about _take care of him, Geralt, while you still can._

Jaskier’s lips curl in a quiet smile. “Get some sleep, Geralt,” he says. “I’ll see you later.” His fingertips flex in the fabric of Geralt’s shirt, firm and confident, and he takes a step forward, presses a kiss to Geralt’s cheek. “I’d kiss you properly,” he says, smile turning mocking, “but your breath smells absolutely fucking _foul_.”

Geralt imagines that’s probably true. 

Jaskier laughs again, then pats Geralt’s chest. “See you later, Geralt.” 

Geralt watches him go, stepping down the corridors of Kaer Morhen like this is where he belongs, like this is where he was meant to be. It settles something in his heart – but he’s way too hungover to figure out what right now. He goes to his room, collapses facedown onto his bed, then goes back to sleep until Coën comes to wake him up for training.


End file.
